The Quality of Light

The air is like bath water as I walk to the corner store and I see into people’s windows, family photos and personal touches in their interior decor, a table in the shape of an elephant, a beaded lamp shade, a fancy coffee maker, a map of the world, and I love them for their familiar humanity, for the too hot night air we’re all breathing, for the sounds of the city on a Sunday night.

I want to write a love letter to the cracks in the sidewalks of my neighborhood, to the smell of food wafting out of opened windows, the quality of the light in Providence on summer nights like these.

The problem is there are so many pretty dicks and strap on harnesses in the world and I don’t own all of them and that certain persons aren’t here to do awful things to me and verbally degrade me while I’m fucking them.